


One Night Only

by celeste9



Series: Fairy Tales [2]
Category: Primeval
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cinderella, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Ballroom Dancing, Banter, Costume Parties & Masquerades, First Kiss, Horseback Riding, Identity Issues, M/M, Plotty, References to Abuse, Romance, Swordfighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-15 16:45:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celeste9/pseuds/celeste9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the death of his father, Becker finds himself in the care of a step-mother who hates him, waiting for the opportunity to rescue himself. The opportunity presents itself in a very unexpected manner. Primeval/Cinderella fusion</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There are references to emotional and physical abuse (feel free to ask me if you are wary of triggers/squicks) and also much fudging of characters’ ages and relationships to one another. Hey, it’s an AU. Beta by fififolle, Lyle created by and used with the permission of fredbassett. ‘Destrier’ is a medieval term referring to a war horse and was the name of Caspian’s horse in the Chronicles of Narnia, which I always found amusing so have used it.
> 
> ETA: The beautiful cover art (fairy Jess!!) comes courtesy of clea2011!

[ ](http://s362.photobucket.com/user/ceteste9/media/onenightonlyfinal_zps97ad20c3.png.html)

“I’m going to fight dragons and monsters and be a hero and live in a castle!” Hilary proclaimed as his mother closed the storybook she’d been reading to him from. He wanted to get up and demonstrate his fighting technique but he knew he was supposed to be sleeping instead so he didn’t. He thought that was very good of him.

Mother smiled at him. “And marry a princess and live happily ever after?”

Hilary paused, scrunching up his nose. He wasn’t sure about princesses, they were always in the boring bits of the stories. “I don’t know about that part.”

“Perhaps you’ll change your mind someday.”

Hilary shrugged, doubtful, but he didn’t want to disagree with Mother. “The heroes are always princes, though. I’m not a prince.”

“Don’t let that stop you. Never let anything or anyone stop you from following your dreams, my little lord,” Mother said, and kissed Hilary’s forehead.

He closed his eyes and, that night, he dreamed of being older, he dreamed of standing before the king with a sword at his hip and the entire kingdom cheering for him. There was another man standing beside him but Hilary could not see his face.

-

Hilary’s mother died when he was a boy. His memory of her was sadly lacking, but the things he did remember stayed in his mind clear as a sunny morning. How she had always smelled of flowers, the way she had smiled at him, the soft sound of her voice, the way her hair had felt against his skin when she kissed him goodnight.

Most of all, Hilary remembered her kindness. She had known everyone in the village and always made time for them, sharing words and smiles. She had given generously, of her time and of what she had, giving away to those who were less fortunate than she. Hilary had been sure that was how a queen must behave.

Hilary vowed to always be as good as his mother had been.

-

Hilary’s father remarried. Her name was Christine and she was beautiful, though perhaps not as beautiful as Hilary’s mother. Her hair fell in long, dark waves around her face and her skin was pale in the fashion of noblewomen who felt paleness was an indication of status, though Hilary was old enough to know that her status at the moment was only as high as that of the man she had married.

She didn’t like Hilary. She was never unkind to him but she paid him only as much attention as she had to and there was a coldness lurking in her eyes even when she smiled. She didn’t acknowledge the villagers and she never ever gave of what she had, what she had only because Hilary’s father had given it to her.

Christine had two children, Oliver and Helen, who didn’t like Hilary either. They were older than he was and their games were cruel. Oliver had a thin, pointed face that reminded Hilary of a rat or a weasel and Helen’s eyes were cold and calculating like her mother’s. She was the one who made all the decisions and Oliver followed her lead. 

Whenever they played blind man’s buff, Hilary always ended up pushed into the dirt or bruised from knocking into things. They liked to play hide and seek but they would leave Hilary for ages without bothering to find him. Once he stayed hidden in a damp, dark hollow outside for hours until he’d missed dinner and when he came back, it was to find Father frantic with worry that he’d been lost or kidnapped or killed. Helen had denied any knowledge of it, snickering to herself when the adults weren’t looking like it was all a big joke, and Christine had slapped Hilary for troubling them so. 

Hilary never dared complain because he wasn’t a baby and he wasn’t a tell-tale. He kept wishing that someday he would prove himself to them and they would accept him, but it never happened.

-

Hilary’s father died in an accident. Hilary’s step-mother said he had fallen from his horse but Hilary knew that couldn’t be true, his father had been the finest horseman in the land and had loved his horses like family.

Hilary clenched his dying father’s hand while he lay in bed, his breath rattling and his skin ghostly pale, blood at the corner of his mouth. Hilary’s step-mother stood just behind, her eyes teary.

“Hilary,” Father said, his voice gasping. “Hilary, my son, my beloved son.”

“Yes, Father,” Hilary said through his tears. “Father, don’t leave me.”

Father’s eyes darted from Hilary’s face to various spots around the room, his focus gone. “Promise me,” he said. “Promise me… you will love one another. Be good to each other.”

“I will, Father, yes, I promise. Father!”

But Father had gone still, his face slack, and Hilary wept bitterly over him. He looked at his step-mother, wanting to be held, like his real mother would have done, but she stood still and hard as a statue.

Her eyes were dry. “Stop sniveling like a little girl and be a man,” she said.

Hilary felt his tears drying on his cheeks and knew that from that moment on, everything was going to be different.

-

As the years went by, it became more and more difficult for Hilary to remember that he had been happy, once. That he had been loved. He forgot what it felt like to never be hungry or cold or afraid, to tire from playing and not work, to have aches only because he had spent too long riding his horse or slipped out of a tree.

He recalled the days after his father’s death like a nightmare, like something that lurked in the corner of his mind as though it hadn’t really happened to him. He’d been locked in the dark, shouting until his throat was raw but no one had come. His stomach had ached with hunger pains until he could hardly recall the taste of food, until he grew so hungry he couldn’t recall how it felt not to be.

He remembered that, though he’d tried not to, he had cried. He remembered that he’d cried for the warmth of a touch. He remembered that when they’d come to let him out he had been cringing in the corner. He remembered looking up into the face of his step-mother and seeing nothing but her contempt.

They called him Becker, like he was a servant boy, like he was less than a servant. His step-mother became ‘my lady’. His bedroom, his wonderful room high up in the attic of the manor house where he could see the land stretch out below, went to Oliver and he slept in the stable with the horses and the cats. He wore Oliver’s hand-me-downs, learning to mend so that he could patch and re-patch them, and when he outgrew Oliver he learned how to cut patterns and sew his own clothing.

Becker learned that life wasn’t fair, that kindness and goodness only got you so far. Being nice and generous didn’t mean you would receive the same treatment in return when all that mattered was control and who had it. A person had to rely on oneself, on one’s own strength, in order to get by. What you wanted didn’t happen simply because you dreamed it.

Becker learned how to bear what needed to be borne and how to bide his time until he could fight back.

-

“Becker!”

Becker turned towards the direction of the voice, watching the housemaid, Abby, running, the wind catching wisps of her blonde hair. “What is it?”

“Helen wants a horse,” Abby said, slowing to a stop. “She wants to go for a ride with that suitor of hers, Nick Cutter.”

“Doesn’t she want the carriage?”

“No, I think she wants to show off her horsemanship, honestly. And you’d better hurry, she’s readying to leave.”

Becker cursed, already moving towards the stable. Helen liked to ask for things at the last possible minute and then punish him when he couldn’t produce miracles. “I’ll prepare Lady,” he tossed back over his shoulder to Abby.

Lady was a docile old mare and Becker readied her as quickly as he could. Still, though, Helen was waiting impatiently at the front of the house by the time he led Lady over.

“Finally, there you are,” she said with a toss of her head. “I dare say you must have had matters of great importance to attend to for you to have kept me waiting so long.”

“I’m sorry, my lady,” Becker murmured.

Helen’s companion, Nick Cutter, looked uncomfortable, averting his eyes as he spoke softly to his own horse. His blond hair fell in his eyes and he pushed it brusquely aside, though the wind merely caught it again. Cutter was a professor at the university, someone Becker would have thought below Helen’s notice, and a decent sort of man. Becker hoped Cutter wouldn’t find himself entangled with Helen.

“Here is Lady,” Becker said, holding out the reins and getting ready to assist Helen up into the saddle.

She was still scowling at him and she trod on his foot, her heavy boot making Becker all too keenly aware of the worn state of his own. “I’ll tell cook not to bother with your supper,” Helen informed him. “You aren’t hungry, are you, Becker?” She pressed one hand to Becker’s shoulder, her long nails digging into his skin.

“No, my lady,” Becker said, tightening his jaw. He raised his eyes to see the look of pity Cutter was directing at him and couldn’t bear it. 

He accidentally on purpose stumbled just enough so that Helen lost her footing and crashed into the mud. There was a quiet snort of laughter from Cutter’s direction, immediately raising the man in Becker’s estimation, before he held out his hand to Helen. She ignored it.

“I am sorry, my lady,” Becker said, bowing his head as Helen scrambled back to her feet. The skirt of her beautiful dress was ruined.

She slapped him across the face, the sharp edges of her nails drawing blood on his cheek. “You stupid, foolish boy,” she said.

Becker simply held her gaze, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of knowing she had hurt him. His cheek stung but he would bear the marks of her nails proudly.

They could kick him to the dirt but they couldn’t stop him from getting up again.

-

The messenger arrived when Becker was returning from a trip to the village market. Matt, the footman, answered the door while Becker paid little attention to the low murmur of voices. “What was it?” he asked absently when Matt closed the door.

Matt held out a missive with the royal seal affixed to it. “From the palace,” he said.

Becker raised an eyebrow but Matt merely continued to look impassive. Becker often thought Matt was particularly well-suited to his position, as a herd of flying purple elephants could storm through the gates and Matt likely would barely flinch.

“Anderson!” Christine said sharply as she came down the stairs. “Who was at the door?”

“A royal messenger, milady,” Matt said, offering her the missive. “He left this.”

Christine broke the seal with her long nails, calling for Helen and Oliver. 

The two came slouching in from upstairs. Helen looked bored, asking, “What is it now, Mother?”

“If you’d rather not see what the king has to say to us, by all means…” Christine waved her hand towards the door.

Helen quieted while Oliver drew in closer, his features painted with eagerness.

Becker remained off to the side, curious enough to stay, hoping they would neglect to note his presence.

Christine had scanned the contents with speed, her eyes ever widening. “King James is throwing a ball at the palace in order to find a suitor for Prince Jon. He asks for all eligible young men and women to attend. Children! You’re going to a ball at the palace.”

Helen’s face was already alight with that calculating shrewdness Becker so hated. “Well, Mother, I believe I will be in need of a new dress.”

Christine barely glanced at Oliver, whose skin had paled almost to the point of looking ill, and instead focused on Helen. Her own face mirrored Helen’s expression. “My dear Helen, I believe you’re right. We wouldn’t want you to look shabby for the prince, would we?”

The two women laughed and Becker slinked away, feeling a pang of pity for the prince. He hoped his family would be unable to sink their claws into Prince Jon.

-

The next few days passed in a flurry of activity while preparations for the ball were made. Becker could hardly get a single moment to himself. There was a constant chorus of, “Prepare the carriage, Becker,” “Fetch my boots, Becker,” “Go into the village, Becker.”

Becker wasn’t the only one suffering, though, as Abby had been tasked with scrubbing Oliver’s best clothes until her fingers turned raw and cracked. It was probably good for her sake that Helen was being fitted for a brand new gown, so it would be the poor seamstress worked to the bone instead.

“Becker, where is my good waistcoat?” Oliver called.

Becker came in from the hall, observing Oliver standing in front of his wardrobe with his clothes flung around the room while Helen sprawled across his bed, resting up on her elbow. He hoped Oliver wasn’t changing his mind about what he was going to wear again. “It isn’t in your wardrobe?”

“If it were, I wouldn’t be asking, would I? Do you think I’m stupid?”

“No, my lord. Perhaps you should ask Abby.”

Oliver hit him, just because he could. “If I wanted to ask the maid I would ask her. I’ve asked you.”

Before Becker could respond, Helen abruptly asked, “You would love to go this masquerade, wouldn’t you, Becker?”

Becker’s gaze was drawn to her. “I have not thought about it, my lady.”

“I think you would. I think you dream about going to the palace like your foolish parents did. I think you think you _deserve_ to.”

“No, my lady. The thought never occurred to me.”

“Good,” Helen said. There was a cruel set to her mouth. 

Oliver slinked closer. “You’re _nothing,_ and you deserve nothing but what we give you. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, my lord.” Becker knew that he should keep his eyes fixed to the ground but instead he raised his chin, staring Oliver in the face. “You are always right, my lord.”

Oliver’s smug expression wavered. He always faltered at even a hint of defiance and he believed everyone to be secretly mocking him behind his back. “Don’t talk back to me!”

“Of course not, my lord. I would never dream of it.”

“Oh, just send him to muck out the stables and be done with it, Oliver,” Helen said with a roll of her eyes.

“Yes, do that,” Oliver agreed quickly. “The stables, and then the sty and the henhouse. And if you aren’t done in an hour-- and _clean,_ not covered in filth-- I’ll throw your dinner to the pigs.”

Becker gritted his teeth. “Very well, my lord.”

It was good he was used to going hungry.

-

Connor Temple was apprenticed to David Owen, the village apothecary, and tended to make his visits to Christine’s both longer and more frequent than they needed to be. It was obvious he was interested in Abby - well, obvious to everyone except Abby, it seemed, though Becker had his suspicions that she ignored Connor’s awkward advances intentionally. Thinking about the two of them gave Becker a bit of a headache, actually.

Connor had been making a delivery, something for Helen that was distinctly not medicinal, and now he was sitting with Becker and Abby while they shared old bread and a bowl of wilted greens.

“I wish I got to go to the ball,” Connor was saying. “I’m eligible, aren’t I?”

Abby bit her lip, keeping back a smile. “Very eligible, I’m sure.”

“Exactly. Prince Jon would be lucky to have me. Not that I’m interested, or anything,” he added hurriedly with a glance in Abby’s direction. “Because I’m not. And I really don’t think I’m cut out to be a prince. Did you ever attend any balls while your parents were alive, Becker?”

Abby elbowed Connor in his tender middle and he winced, first glaring at her but then turning a somewhat sheepish gaze to Becker, as if realising the carelessness of his question.

Becker answered anyway, the images forming behind his eyes. “No, I was too young to be welcome at such things. I remember my parents attending, though, I remember how beautiful my mother looked, like a fairy tale princess. I would creep out of my bedroom and wait at the top of the stairs for them to return home, but of course I could never quite manage to stay awake. I remember my father carrying me to my bed and my mother kissing me goodnight, the way they...” Becker stopped, biting his lip, wondering what had possessed him to blather on so much.

“Your parents must have been lovely,” Abby said in a quiet voice. She had never known them, had known no mistress but Christine.

“They’re gone,” Becker said because that was all that mattered. It didn’t matter how lovely they’d been, how good, because they had both died anyway and left Becker to this.

Connor was watching them with his brown eyes large and curious, like he wasn’t sure exactly what he had stumbled into with his innocent query.

“Wasn’t your father a friend of the king’s? Perhaps the king would--” Abby started but Becker cut her off.

“Would what? Why should the king care about one lowly person? I assure you he has far more important things to deal with.”

“Someone should do something.”

“Someone will, someday.” Becker got up, brushing dirt from his trousers.

This was his life now, but it wouldn’t be his life forever. He would get out of it himself.


	2. Chapter 2

Christine forced all the servants to line up outside and watch Helen and Oliver leave for the ball like some sort of charade of a celebration. Becker had purposely lingered to help Danny the coachman prepare the horses long after his help had still been needed just so that he would look especially grubby. Particularly as he was standing between Matt, for whom being neat was a requirement, and Abby, who had scrubbed her face until she was pink.

Helen wrinkled her nose as she passed him. Becker considered that a victory.

“Make me proud, children,” Christine said as she fussed over them, straightening Oliver’s cravat and smoothing Helen’s hair. It sounded more like an order than any kind of endearment.

“I always wanted to be queen,” Helen said, the corners of her mouth tilting. She lifted her skirt to keep it from brushing the ground but still she paused before the door of the carriage. “Look at this mud!”

“Take my hand, milady,” Danny offered but Helen ignored him. 

She turned around, sweeping her eyes over the line of servants. “Becker!”

Becker took a reluctant step forward. “Yes, my lady?”

“Come and assist me.”

So Becker walked to her side and held out his hand as Danny had done.

Helen ignored his hand, too. “Take off your shirt and cover up this filth.”

For a moment Becker only stared at her, but he knew she was serious. With everyone watching there was nothing to be done. He took off his shirt and threw it over the mud.

Helen graced him with her cruelly pleased smile and then let Danny help her up into the carriage. Once she was settled, she called down to Becker, “Now put it back on, you’re already disgusting so I fail to see the harm. No one wishes to see your skin for longer than absolutely necessary.”

His shirt had sunk into the wet mud but Becker knelt down to retrieve it anyway. He supposed mud was better than shit.

Oliver kicked him as he stepped into the carriage. “Oh, how careless of me,” he said while Helen laughed.

Becker stayed there, sprawled in the mud, his fingers squelching in it, feeling the wetness soak into him. Christine’s eyes were flashing with amusement and Becker dropped his gaze. _It doesn’t matter,_ he told himself. _You are not their plaything. They can’t have you; they can only play at it._ _Show them they can’t break you._

He put his shirt back on. He stood up. He walked back to the line of servants, his chin high. Abby squeezed his hand, heedless of the mess.

-

Long after the carriage had pulled away with Helen and Oliver inside, Becker sat outside in the waning light. He thought about what it would be like to have nothing more to worry about than what to wear to a ball at the palace. He wondered how many people were going to that ball with the sincere hope that the prince might find them desirable. It was nearly unfathomable to him to even be concerned with such a thing.

One day he would get out. He didn’t know how, exactly, but he would. He couldn’t spend his life as a slave for Christine and her children, like he was a thing and not a person. Maybe he could take the best stallion, Destrier, and just leave. Leave and never come back. Follow the road wherever it led. He could find a job working in another stable, or on a farm.

Anywhere had to be better than here. Becker wasn’t afraid of work or hardship, so long as his life was his own.

There was a brilliant flash of light and Becker nearly tumbled from the stump he was perched on. Ahead of him was a dazzling display of twinkling lights, like colourful shards of glass glowing in a shifting circle. Becker got to his feet and moved forward cautiously to inspect it, but suddenly a woman burst through and the lights went out behind her.

Becker blinked at the sudden darkness, focusing on the woman. She was tiny and pretty, with big blue eyes and a wide smile. She was dressed in some sort of flowing gown that almost seemed to float around her, a bright, shimmering pink.

She clapped her hands together. “Hello! You’re Becker, aren’t you? I’m Jess, your fairy godmother.”

For a moment Becker couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He stared at Jess and she stared right back, her smile unwavering. “You look a little young to be any sort of godmother.”

Jess’ mouth turned down in a frown. “I get that a lot.” She brightened quickly. “But I’m brilliant, I promise! I’m just the person you need to get you to your true love.”

“My true love? I’m really not interested.”

“Your sulking says otherwise.”

“I wasn’t sulking.”

Jess simply looked at him.

“Okay, I might have been having a tiny sulk. But it wasn’t anything to do with love. I’m just… tired of this. There has to be something better for me, something more than… than horse shit and getting kicked in the dirt.” Becker shifted his eyes to the side, not wanting to look at the compassion in Jess’ face and unsure why exactly he had said so much to a stranger who was possibly a little bit mad.

“Well, you’re in luck then!” Jess proclaimed cheerfully. “Because my other specialty is making dreams come true.”

Becker wondered if all fairy godmothers were this disgustingly perky or if Jess was just special. Maybe she was high on fairy dust or something. “What was that portal thing you came through?”

Jess waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, nothing, don’t worry about it, just how we get from place to place.”

“I don’t particularly believe in magic, you know.”

“That’s a shame. I suppose you won’t believe this, then.” Jess snapped her fingers.

Becker felt a strange, tightening sensation and looked down at himself. “What the--”

His muddy, worn breeches and wet, ragged shirt had been replaced by a pair of tight-fitting black trousers, a collared shirt, and high boots that fit snugly and comfortably.

“I’m sure there’s a perfectly rational expression for that,” Jess said.

Becker just stared open-mouthed at himself. He had a sudden vision of his father, dressed for a formal dinner, waiting at the bottom of the stairs as Becker’s mother glided down. Something sparked behind his eyes and Becker blinked it away. “I, um…” He swallowed. “You’d better change me back. My step-mother will only have these burned if she sees them and I’ll probably get whipped for the trouble.”

Jess’ expression tightened but she said only, “Don’t be ridiculous, you’re going to a ball. You can’t go in rags.”

“A ball? The one for the prince? I can’t go there, my family’s there and--”

Jess snapped her fingers again and the world seemed to change shape. Becker reached his hand up and touched the mask on his face.

“It’s a masquerade,” Jess said. “No one will suspect.”

“But… I can’t…”

Jess stepped forward and rested her fingers against Becker’s arm. “You can and you will. You are meant for more, Becker, and I promise you, this ball is exactly where you should be.”

Becker took off the mask and held it in his hands, gazing down at it. It was beautifully made, like the dresses that used to belong to his mother. Christine wore them now, sometimes, the ones she didn’t deem too ‘old-fashioned’, and it made Becker feel sick. The mask felt like a remnant of Becker’s old life, something that didn’t fit him or belong to him any more.

“You deserve something good,” Jess said softly. “Let me help you.”

Becker didn’t know why exactly she felt he deserved anything of the sort or even why this odd young woman was helping him at all, but he raised his chin. Perhaps he could belong at the palace this one night only.

Jess smiled at him again. She was beyond lovely when she smiled. Gently, she brushed a hand through his hair and it was as though a layer of dust and filth fell away. “Much better. Like you’ve had a bath even though you haven’t.” With another snap of her fingers, Becker was wearing a fitted, belted coat of the sort fashionable nobles wore. “There. That makes it, I think.”

“I don’t feel at all like myself,” Becker said, shifting and trying to get a look at himself from all angles. He felt sort of stuffy in all these clothes.

“That’s rather the point, isn’t it? But you look very handsome. Now, I’ll just whip you up a carriage--”

“A carriage? I’ll take a horse, there’s no need.”

“No, then you’ll smell like horse again. You’re going to a ball at the palace.”

With that, suddenly there was a carriage on the gravel path, pulled by two magnificent horses.

“You’re brilliant,” Becker found himself saying. 

Jess’ smile was tinged with smugness. “Told you, didn’t I? Now put your mask on and get going before you miss the whole thing.”

Becker did. He affixed the mask to his face and stepped into the carriage. For one night, it seemed he was going to be Hilary again, the boy who knew nothing but fancy baubles and kind treatment, the boy who belonged at palace balls.

He declined to think about who was driving the carriage, though. He expected there were things about magic that he was better off ignoring.

-

The palace looked like a page taken directly out of one of the storybooks Becker’s mother had read to him from when he was a child. He walked slowly down the long staircase into a ballroom lit by glass chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, the columns draped with silks and flowers. Directly in front of him at the opposite end of the room on a raised dais sat King James and Queen Jennifer, or Queen Jenny, as she preferred to be called, with the musicians playing something slow and pretty just off to the side.

Becker wove his way in amongst the people dancing and talking and laughing, the women in their fancy dresses and the men who, it felt strange to note, looked hardly different from Becker himself now. Many of the women had elected, as Helen had, for masks that were not tied to their faces so they might let the men see them.

Almost as though thinking of her had brought her out, Becker caught a glimpse of Helen’s elaborately coiffed dark hair and the back of her long, flowing white and blue dress and immediately went back in the direction he’d come from. Clean, pressed, and masked as he was, Becker preferred to take no chances that he would be recognised.

There was no sign of Oliver. Becker wondered if he might be hanging around closer to the dais, awkwardly nervous, in hopes of being noticed by the royal couple. He choked back his snicker.

Servers were moving across the floor with trays of food and drink but there was also a long table along one side wall filled with plate upon plate of beautifully arranged food. Becker stopped beside it and thought it would almost be a shame to even touch any of it, let alone eat it.

Almost. He picked up what looked like a little ball of stuffed dough and bit into it, tasting savoury spiced meat and wanting to close his eyes and hum in pleasure. He didn’t think he’d ever tasted anything so good in his life.

“Good, isn’t it?”

Becker swallowed, glad he hadn’t choked, and turned around at the voice, licking his bottom lip.

There was a man standing there in a fine, olive green coat. His hair was dark and his eyes were hazel behind the mask, and there was something vaguely familiar about the line of his jaw and the shape of his mouth. Becker supposed it was likely he was only one of the high-born lords who looked down their noses at Becker on his trips into the village.

“I expect they hired only the finest chefs,” Becker said.

“You would be right about that,” the man agreed. “Why aren’t you dancing?”

“I don’t care for dancing.”

“A ball seems a strange destination for you, then.”

“Perhaps I came for the food.”

The man laughed. “Fair enough. I applaud your taste. Come, though, dance with me. You are far too handsome to be off by yourself.”

“You haven’t even seen my face.”

“I don’t need to.”

Becker had the unpleasant feeling that he was blushing behind his mask. “I don’t actually know how to dance,” he admitted, thinking that perhaps that would be enough to discourage this oddly determined young man from his pursuit.

Instead, the man held out his hand to Becker. “You’ll never learn standing by the banqueting table, will you?”

“One dance, then,” Becker relented and took the man’s hand. Rudeness would only make him stand out more and likely one round of getting his toes stepped on would be all the man wanted.

The man pulled Becker close to him and Becker nearly swayed on his feet in surprise, so unused to intimacy as he was. Becker resisted the urge to step backwards, to put more space between them, and instead let the man direct him into place and arrange his hands.

“There, it’s easy,” the man said, gliding them across the floor to the beat of the music, one hand clasping Becker’s and the other warm on Becker’s hip.

Becker looked down at their feet and back up. “Shouldn’t the steps be more complicated than this?”

“They could be, but a simple dance serves its purpose well enough. Talk to me. Tell me how you are enjoying the ball.”

“I am enjoying it well enough.”

“Don’t sound so enthusiastic.”

“Well, you did steal me away from my preferred position.”

“Ah, so you disdain my company?”

“No, my lord, it is only that I would prefer the food.”

The man laughed out loud, full of mirth. “I appreciate your candour and complete lack of respectability. We could do with more like you at court. Where have you been hiding?”

“I would not say I’ve been hiding, exactly,” Becker hedged, unsure of how to proceed. Clearly he could not say why he had never been to court before. “Perhaps I have merely been avoiding the spectacle.” 

“I often wish that path was open to me,” the man said, with a small, wistful sigh. He drew Becker over to one side, where they paused from their dance. “You won’t mind if I…?” He removed his mask, brushing a hand through his hair. “Much better, I felt as if I were suffocating.”

For a moment Becker could only stare at his face in confusion. “You’re Prince Jon,” he said, finally understanding why he had seemed so familiar.

The prince scraped a bow. “That’s me. I do hope you aren’t disappointed. Generally that particular reveal earns me either a disgusting amount of fawning or else a barely restrained punch in the nose.”

“If I wanted to punch you, I assure you, your being the prince wouldn’t stop me.”

Prince Jon grinned. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

“Luckily for you, though, I don’t wish to punch you. At least, not for being the prince. I do retain the right to change my mind as the night continues.”

“I get that a lot,” Prince Jon said sadly. “My father despairs of my disposition and what it means for the future of this kingdom.”

Almost as a reflex, Becker glanced to the dais where the king and queen were sitting. Though King James appeared to be deep in conversation with a pair of courtiers Becker couldn’t name, his gaze rested on the prince more often than not. It made Becker feel distinctly uncomfortable. “Your father seems very interested in your activities.”

At that, Prince Jon directed a jaunty salute towards the king, who appeared markedly unimpressed. The king signaled to a tall, rather formidable-looking blond man in the garb of the king’s guards and shared a word, after which the man started heading straight towards Becker and the prince.

“Oops,” Prince Jon said. “I’ve done it now.”

The guard halted by Prince Jon, bowing swiftly. “I beg your pardon for the interruption, sire, but your father would like a word.”

Prince Jon gave a put-upon sigh. “Would he? I imagine he’ll want to berate me for my rudeness in neglecting all my guests for the sake of one man, and then my mother will suggest that this one man is the one I’ve been seeking, and Father will scowl, and Mother will look down her nose until Father remembers who it is who is truly in charge, and I won’t even have need to speak. So really, I think I should stay here.”

Becker was unable to suppress his amused chuckle, which earned him the flash of a smile from the prince.

The guard, however, was giving the prince a bland, unmoved look. “I don’t believe King James will accept that as an excuse.”

“No, I expect not. Well, then, I’m afraid I must beg my leave,” Prince Jon said, taking Becker’s hand and, to Becker’s very great surprise, kissing the back of it. “Til we meet again,” he said, and swept off.

Becker stared after him, feeling a faint flush rise in his cheeks. The guard was watching him with a small measure of amusement and Becker reclaimed his composure. “You’re Captain Ryan, aren’t you? Of the king’s guards?”

“Aye, my lord, I am.”

Becker tried not to start at the title. “I’ve thought sometimes that I should like to join the king’s guards.”

Ryan gave him a slow once-over. “Have you? I’m sure you are aware of the rigours involved both in being named a guard and in being one.”

“I am.” He knew, also, that Christine would never allow it. There was a sense of prestige that came with being a member of the king’s guards and even though Becker truly was well-born, Christine would do everything in her power to drag Becker’s name through the dirt.

“You are not a first son, then?” Ryan asked.

“No, I am,” Becker said truthfully. For all the good it had done him.

“You would give up your family’s title and fortune for the guards? I can’t imagine your father would approve.”

Becker glanced away. He should never have said anything; he was only drawing attention to himself. “As I said, I’ve only thought about it.”

“Well,” Ryan said, taking his leave. “If you decide in favour of us, please see me personally. I’ll be sure to remember you.”

_ Perfect _ , Becker thought to himself. Just what he shouldn’t have done. He tried to melt into the crowd, thinking at least that he could avoid meeting the prince again.

Of course, it seemed like no time at all had passed before Becker felt a gentle touch to his elbow and turned to come face-to-face, yet again, with the prince. “One talking-to from your father wasn’t enough?”

Prince Jon smiled easily. “He’d soon grow bored if I actually listened to him. And I will soon grow bored if I am forced to forsake your interesting company for the rest of them.” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, encompassing the ballroom.

“In that case, I will only be doing my duty as a citizen of this realm by amusing you, sire.”

“Exactly.”

The trouble was, Becker found himself smiling back at the prince because truthfully, he’d been enjoying the other man’s company. Besides, what was the harm in making the most out of this gift of an evening? Might as well spend it with Prince Jon, right?

When the clock began to chime midnight, Becker startled and drew back from the prince. He had completely lost track of the time and he needed to leave before anyone noticed he was missing, he needed to be gone before Helen and Oliver left. If they were to catch him returning…

“What’s wrong?” Prince Jon asked, quiet concern in his tone.

“Nothing, Your Highness. Only, I’m sorry, but I need to leave.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now, I’m sorry,” Becker repeated and forced himself away.

“Wait!” the prince called, reaching out to grasp Becker’s arm. “You haven’t told me your name, how will I find you again?”

Becker only smiled at him, pulling out of the prince’s grip. “I suppose if you’re meant to, you will. Everyone needs a bit of mystery in their lives.”

“Oh, that isn’t fair,” Prince Jon said even as Becker was leaving, but his voice was filled only with fondness.

Becker nearly ran up the steps and through the entry hall, then out of the palace to his waiting carriage. He sprawled back against the seat, closing his eyes and catching his breath. He felt exhilarated and dangerous; what if he had been caught? He hadn’t had a night this good in as long as he could remember, hadn’t felt this excited or this alive.

The prince had been nice, too, he thought, and laughed. He’d spent almost the entire evening with Prince Jon, who had apparently taken quite a liking to him, and he couldn’t even tell anyone.

Becker couldn’t have imagined this night in his wildest dreams.

In what seemed like no time at all, he had arrived back home. Becker stepped out of the carriage and thought, _Well, damn._ What was he supposed to do with this thing, then?

As he stared at it, though, it suddenly vanished. One instant it was there and the next it wasn’t, gone like a wisp of smoke.

“Damned magic,” Becker muttered and went off to the stable.


	3. Chapter 3

There was a tree in the woods past the outskirts of the manor that Becker liked better than anything. When he swung up into the branches it was like the rest of the world went away and it was only him. He could be a boy again up in that tree, the carefree boy who hadn’t known how good he’d had it.

There was a solid, sturdy branch that Becker fit easily upon. He was sitting there now, not thinking of anything in particular. Just enjoying the moment of solitude snatched from the grim day, listening to the chirping of the birds and feeling the warmth of the sunny day on his skin.

He heard the unmistakable sound of an approaching horse crunching through the underbrush and glanced down. Then he nearly lost his perch because oh, damn, that rider was most definitely Prince Jon.

Becker thought the prince might pass him by, was hoping the prince would pass him by, but unfortunately he stopped and dismounted, talking softly to his horse and settling him. 

Prince Jon looked up and then Becker was caught. “Hello! I hope you don’t mind if I stop here a while to give my horse a rest.”

“If anyone owns these woods, it’s you,” Becker said and clambered out of the tree to land nimbly on his feet. He certainly couldn’t avoid meeting the prince on even footing without seeming horribly rude.

“You have me,” Prince Jon said ruefully. “I was hoping to avoid recognition.”

“I can pretend you’re a messenger, if you like, but you’d be a rather finely dressed one.”

“Suppose I should have disguised myself better.”

“Better luck next time. Of course, you’ll have quite the challenge hiding your face.”

The prince laughed and stroked his chin. “Too distinctive for my own good, I have often lamented.”

“Your modesty is to be commended, Your Highness.”

“One of my more admirable qualities, I know. And you? Do you live around here?”

Becker hesitated. “I tend the stables at one of the nearby manors.”

“Ah, yes, I would have guessed that.”

Becker widened his eyes theatrically. “Do I stink, sire? I apologise for offending your delicate senses.”

Prince Jon laughed again. “Oh, you are a delight. A clever tongue to go with your pretty face. Come, take a walk with me.”

“I daren’t refuse,” Becker said teasingly, though he wished very much that he did dare. This was a terrible, terrible idea and a terrible state of affairs. Had he not seen enough of Prince Jon at the masquerade?

“Do you ride here often, sire?” Becker asked as they strolled along.

“Not here, no. I was feeling a bit stifled at the palace, I must admit, and needed to get away.”

“I am surprised to see you without a guard.”

Playfulness shone in the prince’s eyes. “Lost him a mile or so back.”

“Oh, how rebellious of you.”

“I take my fun where I can get it.”

There was something glowing through the trees ahead and Prince Jon reached his hand out to brush Becker’s arm. “What is that? Do you see it?”

With a sinking feeling, Becker thought he had a pretty good idea of what it was. “I do.”

Prince Jon set off at a quick, easy pace, taking long strides, and Becker was forced to follow.

As he had expected, they found an entirely familiar-looking large, bright gateway in the middle of the woods. Becker muttered a curse under his breath and waited for Jess to come out and embarrass him but nothing happened. The portal just remained there, pulsing.

Prince Jon slowly circled it. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

“No, sire,” Becker lied, rather than attempt to explain that his fairy godmother had come through it once to dress him up for the ball because, oh yes, that masked man you met was actually me.

That would go over _great._

“Well, only one thing for it. Let’s have a look.”

“I’m not sure it’s wise to go through, sire.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Prince Jon said with a reckless tilt to his lips and simply strode right into the light.

So obviously there was only one thing to do.

Becker stepped through the portal, expecting to see… Well, he wasn’t sure what, maybe some sort of enchanted castle? Or girls frolicking around in the woods? How was he supposed to know where fairy godmothers came from or what they did in their spare time?

Regardless, what he actually saw was a wide stretch of open grassland, broken up only by the occasional tree. In the distance he could see what looked to be a small lake.

Prince Jon kept turning back to the portal and then looking out at their surroundings, his expression a perfect display of puzzlement. “It’s like another world,” he said.

“I think we should return, surely it isn’t safe for you to--”

“You sound like Captain Ryan.”

“Captain Ryan must be a sensible man.”

Prince Jon opened his mouth to reply but Becker held up a hand to silence him, certain he had heard something.

Becker cast his eyes about and then - Yes, there. A small brown creature, something like a cross between a bear and a dog or a wolf, was shuffling towards them on the ground. It made a snuffling sort of sound, stopping and watching them with curious eyes.

“It’s rather sweet, actually,” the prince commented, keeping his voice low. “My cousin would beg to keep it, no doubt.”

“We should leave,” Becker said, scanning the area. “Where the little one goes, the parents can’t be far behind.” The much larger, much meaner parents who wouldn’t like their baby near any unknown possible predators.

The prince seemed to immediately understand Becker’s point because his hand was now casually resting on the hilt of the sword at his hip. “You might be--”

But it was too late because Becker could already see the creature running straight for them, gliding swiftly over the plains. The baby was yipping in excitement and Becker shoved the prince, thinking that if they could only go back through the portal before the thing reached them, they would be fine.

Prince Jon let Becker push him and they started running in an awkward tangle of limbs until Becker settled for grabbing hold of the prince’s sleeve, letting the distance between them stretch so they could move faster. The prince stumbled through first, dragging Becker along with him, and they came to a halt back on the other side.

“Do you think that’s--” Prince Jon started but then the snarling creature came flying through after them.

It was enormous, as big as a horse but built more solidly, and Becker did not want to get any closer to those teeth.

Prince Jon drew his sword while Becker rolled to the side, ducking out of the way of the advancing animal and frantically searching for anything he could use as a weapon. He grabbed a large rock and thought, _Good enough._

The prince hacked at the creature and then seemed to lose his footing on the uneven ground, stumbling. It was opening enough for the creature to raise its paw and strike the prince forcefully, sending him flying backwards, where he knocked his head on a tree and slumped to the ground, still.

Becker threw his rock, catching the animal with a glancing blow that gave him enough time to lunge for the prince’s sword and spring back up to his feet. The sword felt slightly too heavy in his hand, the weight of it not quite right, but he could still remember his lessons. He ducked one swipe of the creature’s claws and swung the sword through the air, back and forth, forcing the animal farther and farther back. He caught one blow on its chest, drawing blood and making it roar in pain. 

That was apparently enough for it to pronounce Becker too much of an effort, for it backed away through the portal and disappeared. 

After it had gone, Becker stood there with his sword still upraised and waited, watching, making sure it was really gone. After only a few moments, the portal started to flicker and then it was gone, just like that.

Becker breathed a sigh of relief and went over to the prince, who had since regained consciousness and had pushed himself into an upright seated position, rubbing his head. 

“Are you all right?” Becker questioned, thinking it would be just his luck to get the prince injured.

But the prince answered, “Fine, just a bit sore and with a beauty of a headache. Who taught you how to use a sword?”

“My father,” Becker said without thinking, but the prince didn’t question him further. He gripped the prince by the arms and hauled him to his feet before wiping the sword clean and handing it back to its owner.

Prince Jon leaned unashamedly on Becker and sheathed his sword. “Well, that was exhilarating.”

“That’s one word for it, anyway.”

“Oh, come now, don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy that, just a little.”

Becker fought the urge to break into a reluctant smile because, okay, maybe he had. “You won’t catch me saying anything of the sort.”

The prince squeezed his arm around Becker’s shoulders. “Be that way, then, my knight in shining armour.”

Becker snorted. “Your knight in rags, more like.”

“The rags suit you, actually. Far more fetching than some old suit of armour that hides you away.” There was a comical leer on Prince Jon’s face that Becker didn’t know whether to be appalled or amused by.

“Are you always this charming?” 

“Usually I’m more so. I’m only getting started.”

“I can’t wait,” Becker said dryly. 

“Just call me Prince Charming,” Prince Jon said obnoxiously, buffing his knuckles on his chest.

Becker knocked his elbow into the prince’s side but couldn’t deny his amusement. “Prince Full of Himself, maybe. If I’m your knight, though, you know what that makes you.”

“Exceedingly lucky?”

“My damsel in distress.”

Prince Jon chuckled. “Well, you must at least allow me to be your prince in distress. Just so that I may keep up appearances, you know.”

“I’ll allow it. Just for appearances.”

“I am ever so grateful,” Prince Jon said, pulling away so that he might gift Becker with a faintly mocking bow. 

Becker watched him as he moved through the woods and back to his horse (the poor thing looked a trifle spooked still, though thankfully the fighting had been a fair distance away). He found that he was forced to admit he was growing genuinely fond of Prince Jon.

This was only going to end in disaster.

-

That night, before he retired, Becker carefully removed a long object from its hiding place in an empty stall, beneath a layer of straw. He slowly unwrapped each layer of cloth until his father’s sword was resting on his knees.

Becker had little that he could call his own and none of it was more important than this. He had sneaked the sword out of his father’s room after his death, knowing that Christine likely would have sold it or, perhaps worse, given it to Oliver. Becker had cared for it as he had seen his father do, keeping the blade sharp and clean.

For years it had been too heavy, too unwieldy, but now Becker could swing it like an extension of his arm. He moved through the exercises his father had taught him so long ago, hearing the echo of his lessons, and it was the only time Becker could still feel close to the ghost his father had become.

He wondered if Father would have been proud to see him defend Prince Jon. He wondered if Father would have been proud to see him become one of the king’s guards.

Becker put the sword away because it was no use wondering.

-

Becker was in the stable brushing Lady’s coat until it shone when he noticed a glow out of the corner of his eye. He glanced up and there it was, one of those portals, and this time, Jess came walking through again.

“Hello!” she said cheerfully.

“Hello,” Becker said and patted Lady’s side before putting the brush away and stepping out of her stall.

“I never got to hear about your night at the palace.”

“Nothing to tell, I suppose.”

Jess was looking around as if trying to find somewhere to sit before she settled on turning over a bucket, arranging her skirt carefully around herself as she sat. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”

Becker arched an eyebrow. “What you’ve heard?”

“I heard that a strange young man no one seems to have seen before caught Prince Jon’s attention and kept him captivated nearly the entire night.”

“How lovely for him. He must have been quite the man.”

“You aren’t fooling anyone.”

Becker changed the subject. Anything to divert Jess’ attention away from him and the prince. “One of your portals opened yesterday, only instead of a bunch of pretty girls in dresses, there was a very angry, very large bear creature.”

“Really? How strange.” Jess was presenting every appearance of utter unconcern as she let her eyes widen as though in surprise at Becker’s story and continued to smooth her dress over her knees.

“It attacked the prince. If I hadn’t been there I’m afraid King James may have found himself in need of a new heir.”

“How fortunate you were there, then.”

Becker eyed her, not failing to take note of her flippancy, and wondered exactly how far Jess would go in her quest to… ‘make Becker’s dreams come true’, or whatever it was she thought she was doing. “Yes, very fortunate. One might almost say it was too fortunate to be coincidence.”

“One might,” Jess agreed, checking her fingernails. “There is to be another ball at the palace, have you heard?”

“I hadn’t.” The missive must have come that morning.

“You know he’s throwing it in the hopes of meeting you again.”

Becker’s immediate instinct was to protest because surely that was a leap, but then he remembered the way Prince Jon had looked at him and the way he had ignored all the other guests, against his father’s wishes, to spend time with Becker. Perhaps it wasn’t so unbelievable. 

But that didn’t mean Becker could oblige him. “I can’t. Could you imagine if someone saw me? Helen or Oliver? And Prince Jon... He believes me to be a nobleman.”

“You are a nobleman.”

Becker kicked the toe of his boot into a pile of dirty straw. “A nobleman who smells of horse shit.”

“A nobleman all the same, and a nobleman who deserves better,” Jess said firmly.

“I can’t risk it.”

“Perhaps not,” Jess said with a sigh, but she recovered momentarily. “When he doesn’t find you, he will hold another masquerade.”

Becker turned from her. “I suppose we’ll see.”

-

The day after the ball he was unable to attend, Becker brought an apple and a book he’d sneaked from the library into his tree. Helen and Oliver had been particularly foul -tempered again as apparently the king had brought an early end to the festivities with the explanation that ‘the prince was feeling a trifle unwell’.

Becker tried not to feel pleased by that.

He had only just tossed his apple core down into the dirt when his ears picked up the sound of someone making their approach. His heart certainly did not start to beat a tiny bit faster in anticipation because what would he even have to anticipate?

The prince was leading his horse by the reins, his eyes upraised until he caught sight of Becker up in his tree. “Hello there,” he said, smiling.

“Your Highness, what a surprise to see you again.” Becker dropped down from his seat and brushed off the back of his trousers, before leaning one shoulder nonchalantly against the tree trunk.

“Oh, you know, I was in the area. Just passing through.”

“Really? Just passing through? This particular place, at this particular time? What a coincidence.”

“I’m afraid I don’t care for your insinuation or your tone. You flatter yourself over much, I think.”

“Do I, sire? My sincerest apologies. Of course I know you would never have returned for me.”

“Of course not. But if I had, I’m sure it was only to reassure myself that I can actually meet with a person whose company I enjoyed more than once.”

Becker blinked, an unexpected warmth rising within him because he knew what Prince Jon meant, even if he wasn’t supposed to.

But he didn’t say anything and Prince Jon said, “But never mind that. It would seem no other strange doorways to other worlds have opened again in my absence.”

“Very fortunately not. If one were to appear again, however, I would hope that you have learned your lesson about jumping through without a thought.”

“One would hope,” Prince Jon said, but the light in his eyes told Becker all he needed to know. “To be quite honest, though, it would have been nice to have a taste of excitement after last night.”

“Last night?” Becker feigned ignorance. 

“We had a ball at the palace.”

“Ah, yes, of course. I gather you did not overly enjoy it.”

“You may be surprised to hear this, but the company at such things is often a touch dull,” Prince Jon said, heaving a put-upon, dramatic sigh.

“You don’t say.”

“Hard to believe, isn’t it? I must admit I had hoped...” Prince Jon looked into the distance, a far-away expression on his face. “Well, there is a particular person whose company I had greatly enjoyed at the masquerade, but he did not attend.”

Becker wished his heart didn’t beat faster at that, he wished he didn’t feel as glad as he did because he was not supposed to be doing this. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I expect I’ll simply have to throw another one in an attempt to entice him.”

“You must think highly of him to go to so much trouble.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble for me, I assure you,” the prince said with some ruefulness. “But he is... different. He is a puzzle and a challenge and what sort of prince would I be if I allowed myself to be defeated by such?”

“So you care only for the mystery of him.” Becker wasn’t disappointed. He wasn’t.

“No, I did not say that. Truthfully, I find him refreshing. And intriguing, and I should very much like to see him again.”

Becker looked away. “These things have a way of working themselves out,” he said, and carefully did not think about how much he wanted to be that masked man again, that lord whose favour the prince seemed to value so much.

-

Another messenger arrived from the palace. There was to be another masquerade. Becker kept his face blank to show how much he didn’t care.

“I have my clothes from last time,” Becker said to Jess when she unsurprisingly made an appearance mere moments after Helen and Oliver had set off. “They didn’t vanish like the carriage so I kept them in the stable.”

Jess wrinkled her nose. “Firstly, that’s disgusting, because they’ll stink. You will not impress the prince by stinking. Secondly, as if I would allow you to wear the same outfit twice.” She looked offended at the mere suggestion of it.

Becker couldn’t help but laugh because Jess might be odd but she was really so very lovely, too, and then with the familiar snap of her fingers, Becker was dressed like a fancy lord again. 

“You should have the same mask, though,” Jess said, so Becker retrieved it from its hiding place, pausing a bit before putting it on.

Jess breathed out a tiny sigh as she gave him an assessing once-over. “You’re really so handsome, you know. Prince Jon couldn’t do better than you.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Becker muttered, averting his eyes.

“I know you’re not nearly so modest as you pretend to be, you know exactly how pretty you are,” Jess said, grinning and giving Becker’s hand a squeeze. “But all right, I’ll try not to start planning your wedding quite yet.”

Becker rolled his eyes.

-

When Becker arrived at the palace, he spent only a moment in the ballroom, long enough to see Helen tittering at a tall, young, dark-haired man while Oliver nervously fumbled and then dropped a glass of champagne in front of a woman with long brown hair that fell in curls down her back who was clearly much too good for him.

Becker gave his head a small shake and strode through, feeling that he’d like to be out in the fresh air, actually. He made his way to a small, deserted balcony, glad to be away from the crowds of people. Flowers grew in artful arrangements, making the whole area smell sweet but not overly cloying. When Becker leaned against the short wall, he could look down and see the kingdom stretch out before him, the woods and the rolling hills, the clustered buildings of the village and the far-off manor houses.

“Are you hiding from me, sir?”

Startled, Becker turned around only to see the prince standing before him, already having abandoned his mask. He bent in a belated bow. “Your Highness.”

Prince Jon waved him up. “Oh, please. Don’t start with all the pretension now, not when I’ve gone to all this trouble to find your blessedly unimpressed self again.”

“Oh, stop, you wicked flatterer.”

The prince smiled widely. “Shall I compliment your blandly inoffensive accent, or your vaguely disinterested manner?”

“You’re going to make me blush,” Becker said, ducking his head coyly and fluttering his eyelashes until the prince burst into laughter.

“You’ve ruined me for anyone else, you know,” he said, leaning against the wall with his hands set on top of it.

“That seems only fair as I suspect you might like to ruin me, sire.”

Prince Jon’s eyes widened slightly, momentarily stunned before that cheerfulness returned. “You’re terrible. No wonder I enjoy you so much.”

“Not everyone appreciates me,” Becker said with an exaggerated sigh, even though the statement actually hit unfortunately close to home.

“Perhaps that’s why I like you, as I assure you very few people genuinely appreciate me.” Prince Jon plucked a flower and handed it to Becker, who tried not to stare, because, what?

It was a deep bluish colour and shaped a little like a bell. Becker knew enough about the local plant life to know that it wasn’t native to this land and grew only behind the palace walls.

“I believe you are under the mistaken impression that I am a woman who can be wooed with flowers,” Becker said, rolling the stem between his fingers.

“Perhaps I simply wanted to give you some pretty trinket and this was all I had at hand.”

“I’m actually not sure if that’s better or worse.”

“Well,” Prince Jon said, circling Becker’s wrist with his hand, “if I am going to ruin you, I should at least be polite about it.”

Becker looked down at their hands and smiled.

-

He kept the flower.

It wasn’t his first mistake, as, clearly, his first mistake had been allowing himself to grow so close to the prince at all.

It was, however, his worst mistake.


	4. Chapter 4

“What is this?” Helen asked furiously, grabbing Becker by the arm and attempting to spin him around.

She was strong enough and Becker was startled enough that he over-balanced somewhat, but he shrugged her aside and regained his footing. “What, my lady?”

That was when he noticed that in her hand, she was clutching the crumpled remains of Becker’s sad little flower.

“Where did you get this?” Helen demanded, her eyes bright with anger. 

They had gained a small audience, Oliver, creeping down the stairs to settle behind Helen’s shoulder, while Abby had stopped in the hall, clenching a dirty rag and bucket, her eyes wide and fear-filled.

“I picked it in the field, my lady,” Becker answered calmly. He met Helen’s gaze evenly.

“You’re a liar. This is from the palace.”

“I’m sorry, but you must be mistaken. How would I have a flower from the palace?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.”

“The answer is I couldn’t, and I don’t.”

“This type of bluebell doesn’t grow here! It grows only in the palace gardens, I know it because I’ve seen it! How do you have it?” Helen grabbed Becker’s shoulders and shook him.

“I found it,” Becker said, too scared to think straight, knowing that he’d messed up and it was his own fault. Had he actually thought he could have something good, something that was only his? He’d been foolish and sentimental and Helen would know, he’d be punished and he’d never see the prince again and he -

“What is going on here?” Christine demanded, striding in through the door Matt was holding open. Her long skirt swept against the floor.

“Becker’s done something he shouldn’t have done,” Oliver said, sounding viciously gleeful.

“Mother, Becker is lying to me, he has a flower that grows only in the palace and he won’t tell me why he’s got it,” Helen said, dropping her hands from Becker like he was suddenly filthy.

Christine’s cool gaze moved from one to the other of them, assessing. She held out her hand for the flower, which Helen gave her. She examined it and then crushed it in her fist. “Don’t be silly, Helen, of course he can’t have got it from the palace. Becker? As though King James would allow him to stink up the place.”

Helen was digging her nails into her palms, glaring at Becker. “Yes, Mother,” she ground out.

“You stole it, didn’t you, Becker? You stole it from some unsuspecting noblewoman, you wicked boy.”

Becker forced himself to cast his eyes downward. He knew how to pick his battles and this wasn’t anything he could win. Better to temper the loss. “Yes, my lady. I’m sorry, my lady.” 

Christine slapped him with an open hand, dragging her nails across his skin. “I’m afraid boys who steal aren’t allowed to eat. Consider yourself lucky that I am in a generous mood or you would find yourself facing far worse.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

The flower fell from her hand. “Don’t ever bring dead things into my house again.” She swept off.

Helen, still looking at him with the full force of her hatred, shoved into him roughly as she went by. “I won’t forget this,” she said.

Oliver trailed after the women, a faint smile hovering about his mouth.

Becker closed his eyes and breathed.

-

When Becker escaped to his refuge in the woods, he knew it was too risky. He knew he shouldn’t tempt fate, not after what had happened, but he also knew that he needed to get away or he would do something he would regret.

If he was hoping to see the prince, well, that was neither here nor there.

He took Destrier, spurring him into a gallop and relishing the feel of the wind whipping through his hair. There was something liberating about being on a horse, something that could make him just the smallest bit happier no matter what else was going on.

Prince Jon was waiting for him, sitting on the ground with his knees bent and his back against Becker’s favourite tree. “I thought I wouldn’t see you.”

“Here I am,” Becker said, dismounting. “Stay,” he murmured softly to Destrier, slipping him the end of a carrot from his pocket, and then sank down beside the prince, a sensation of ease and relief washing over him.

“Here you are,” Prince Jon agreed and they sat for some time in silence that was more comfortable than it should have been, like two old friends rather than a mismatched pair of near strangers.

It was the prince who spoke first. “I envy you, you know.”

Becker just stared at him, thinking that surely he must have misheard. The prince, envy him? It was ludicrous.

“You must think me a fool, spoilt and silly. But I do, I envy you your freedom and lack of… structure, not having your every move chosen for you, not being constantly watched.”

“Forgive me, sire, but you don’t know the first thing about my life.”

“No, you’re right, of course. I expect an hour of living in your shoes would have me crying for the comforts of the palace,” Prince Jon admitted wryly. “But you don’t know what it’s like to live my life, either.”

“It must be difficult, having everything you want,” Becker said bitterly.

“Not everything, not by far,” the prince said with a sad kind of longing in his tone, but Becker couldn’t hear it. Not then, not after the afternoon he’d had.

He snapped. He sprang up to his feet, swelling with too much nervous energy to sit. “You think that you know what hardship is, living in your palace with your servants and having the entire country fall at your feet when you pass them by? You think your life is _so hard_ because you must listen to your father and you must learn about duty and honour, but you don’t know what it means to be afraid, to be a little boy too scared to speak, to be hungry and not know when you will next be allowed to eat, to live according to the whims of people who-- people who should be better. You think you are lonely because you don’t know who cares for you because of _you,_ but you don’t know what real loneliness is, real loneliness when you know that _no one_ gives a damn about you. So don’t you dare try to compare your life to mine.”

Becker found that he was breathing like he’d just run the length of the kingdom, filled with so much anger and rage that he didn’t know what to do with it. The prince was just staring at him, his mouth hanging slightly open and making him look silly. The only sound was that of a bird singing in the next tree, sounding impossibly carefree.

“I’m not sorry,” Becker said eventually into the silence. “I know I should be because I shouldn’t dare speak to the prince like that, but I’m not sorry. Someone should tell you when you’re being an arrogant twit.”

To Becker’s immense surprise, the prince began to laugh. “My goodness, the mouth on you,” he said, still chuckling. “You don’t fool around, do you?”

“I find it’s best to be honest,” Becker said primly.

“Honest, yes, honest as the sharp edge of a sword. That cut, you know, I think that actually hurt.”

“Never said I was nice.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Becker watched the breeze blow through the branches, fluttering the leaves. “I used to be, I think. I used to be nice; I used to be good.”

“What happened?”

“I grew up.”

“Yes,” Prince Jon said, and now he was getting to his feet. All traces of amusement had fallen away and he was now utterly serious. “I fear you grew up much quicker than you should have done.”

“I think you’ll find that’s the case for many in your kingdom, Your Highness, if you’d care to look.”

Sorrow glimmered in the depths of Prince Jon’s hazel eyes, sorrow and regret and something else. He was standing so close that Becker would only have had to sway forward to brush their mouths together and then the prince _was_ leaning in, and Becker realised he was going to do it, he was going to - 

Becker sprang back. “I have to go, I have chores to complete, I shouldn’t have come out here anyway.” He was starting to babble, hardly aware of what he was saying, words tumbling out while he neglected to look at the prince straight in the face. “My mistress is displeased with me already and I’m likely to get a whipping if she finds me missing.”

“She has you whipped?” Prince Jon’s voice was thunderous.

“Not often.” Certainly not often enough for Oliver, who took a perverse pleasure in seeing Becker’s pain, Becker bowed low and powerless, all the control in Oliver’s hands. What Oliver didn’t realise was that they could never take from Becker what he wouldn’t give.

They would never own him and he would never break.

“Show me.”

“What?”

“Show me your scars.”

“Your Highness--”

“Please,” Prince Jon said, and perhaps it was that word that made Becker do it. _Please,_ the prince said, when he could demand anything he wanted. _Please,_ he said, _please,_ like Becker was someone who mattered.

Becker turned around until his back was to the prince and removed his shirt slowly, slipping it down off his shoulders.

Prince Jon winced, immediately stretching out his hand to trace the welts. He murmured something low under his breath that Becker gathered was likely unkind. His touch was soft and tender and Becker could hardly stand it, he braced himself to keep from shuddering, to stop from leaning into every press of the prince’s hands because this was something he could never have, no matter how much he played at it.

“How do you bear it?” Prince Jon whispered. “How can you let them treat you like this?”

As if he had a choice. Becker shrugged back into his shirt, knocking Prince Jon’s hands away. “It is only my flesh,” he said.

“Only your flesh,” the prince repeated, disbelieving but there was something in his eyes that made Becker think he was so close to getting it.

“Don’t feel sorry for me,” Becker said, putting more space between them. “I don’t want your pity.”

“I would never pity you,” Prince Jon said and the way he said it made it ring true. He abruptly changed the subject. “I’m having another ball tomorrow evening.”

“I know.”

“I wish you could come.”

“You will have your masked lord. You don’t need me,” Becker said and swung up into the saddle on Destrier’s back.

He didn’t know why he felt so sad.

-

Jess showed up once again to insist Becker went to the palace and to provide him with yet another set of new clothes. She seemed to catch on to Becker’s mood, though, and was subdued and quiet, speaking to him gently like a shying animal.

Before he left, she said, “You can be happy, you know? You can have something that’s only for you, that they can’t take away.”

“Maybe just for a night, a night of make-believe,” Becker said and didn’t look at the sorrow in her big blue eyes.

When Becker descended the staircase into the palace ballroom, it was to find the prince striding towards him and all eyes turning his way. Some were curious but most were resentful and Becker knew he had made enemies simply by being the one whom Prince Jon so clearly favoured. He knew that if he searched, he would find Oliver. He would find Helen and her deathly cool glare.

“Sir,” the prince said, his pleasure at seeing Becker writ all over his face, outstretching his hand.

“Your Highness,” Becker said and took the prince’s hand.

“You see, I’ve got the hang of it now,” Prince Jon said as they moved side-by-side across the floor. “I need only to host a masquerade and there you are.”

“I suppose I shall have to try harder. I would hate to be predictable.”

“Perhaps you could change it up by arriving here for a ball, or just for dinner. You know, so that I might finally see your face.”

“But Your Highness, then where would the mystery be? If you knew all my secrets I fear you would grow tired of me.”

“That is impossible, I promise.”

“And how much is the promise of a prince worth?”

Prince Jon was smiling faintly. “You never fear to offend, do you? You seem so familiar to me somehow.”

Becker couldn’t explain the thrill that rose in him at that because that should have been the last thing he wanted to hear. The prince _could not_ know the truth of who he was. “Do I, sire?”

“Sometimes I think…” Prince Jon shook his head. “No matter. Come, I want to present you to my parents.”

“Your parents?” Becker asked, a sensation of apprehension coiling in his belly.

“King James and Queen Jenny. You may have heard of them.”

“I doubt they would be interested in meeting me, sire.”

“You would be greatly mistaken as they wish for nothing more.”

“You have been telling lies about me,” Becker said, forcing a tone of nonchalance.

“Perhaps slight exaggerations. I may have waxed at length about your eyes, and perhaps also your hair.”

Becker laughed in spite of himself and allowed the prince to lead him to the dais, because what else could he do?

Queen Jenny beamed benevolently at them, resplendent in a deep red gown with her crown perched atop her head. King James, on the other hand, met them with a faint air of disapproval.

“Your Majesties, beloved parents, may I present to you my bewitching partner?” Prince Jon said with a flourish. 

Becker bowed as low as he could. “Your Majesties. It’s an honour to meet you.”

“Oh, rise, please,” Queen Jenny insisted, waving him up. “Jon is so taken with you that we just had to meet you.”

Prince Jon grinned at his mother, even that simple expression filled with affection. “The fact he still hasn’t given me his name makes him rather more dashing, don’t you think?”

“That is perhaps not quite the word I would have chosen,” the king said. “So, you’re my son’s mystery acquaintance.”

“It would appear so, Your Majesty,” Becker said.

“He can’t seem to stop talking about you and yet he knows nothing substantial about you. You are not often at court?”

“No, Your Majesty.” Becker prepared himself for a royal interrogation, hoping that he was up to the task.

“You do not care for us, then?”

Becker scrambled for a response, knowing he must not offend the king at all cost. “Oh, no, Your Majesty, it is only that I am... not from here, you see.”

“Yes, I see. Visiting family or friends?”

“I suppose saying I’m only passing through would be more accurate.”

“Ah, so you don’t mean to stay long.” King James actually looked pleased by that.

“I couldn’t say for certain, Your Majesty.”

“It seems you can say very little for certain.”

It was then that Prince Jon interrupted, “Why don’t we just get it out in the open? Father, I know what you desperately want to know is,” here the prince laid his hand on Becker’s arm and looked deeply into his eyes, “are you planning on assassinating me?”

There was a surprised, breathy laugh from Queen Jenny’s direction while King James scowled.

Becker gave the question the gravity it was due. “If I were, Your Highness, I expect telling you would be a poor decision. Unless, of course, I did it to put you off your guard, playing it like a joke, as it were.”

Prince Jon nodded solemnly. “A true dilemma. Still, though, you have had chance enough before now to kill me if you wished, so I suspect I might be safe.”

“Unless I am waiting until after we’re wed.”

This time it was the prince who laughed, loud and delighted. “See, Father, I told you he was funny, didn’t I?”

King James looked as though he had swallowed a lemon. “Very droll, I’m sure.”

Queen Jenny’s eyes were twinkling, though. “I can see why my son likes you so much.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Becker said, an unexpected memory of his mother in the village popping into his head. He thought that she must have loved Queen Jenny, who was as kind as Becker had always thought a queen must be.

It was with an oncoming sense of dread that Becker noticed Helen coming their way. She was holding her mask away from her face while she carried a glass of champagne in her other hand. “Oh, Your Highness,” she said, dropping into a curtsey and giving everyone a view straight down her ample cleavage. “Your Majesties. I hope you won’t think me rude but I simply had to speak to Prince Jon again, it’s been too long.” Here she side-eyed Becker with fury in her eyes, just a swift flash that Becker suspected none of the others would have noticed.

“Lady Helen,” Prince Jon said politely and kissed her hand. “For my part I hope that you are not offended by my absence from your side.”

Helen tittered. “Of course not, Your Highness. I was only worried you had forgotten me.”

“An impossibility, I assure you.”

“An impossibility indeed,” King James said in an entirely different tone. Becker almost wanted to laugh.

Too much of his mirth must have shown in his bearing because Helen’s attention was drawn to him again. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of your acquaintance, sir,” she said, searching his eyes.

_ The flower,  _ Becker kept thinking, _the flower._

He started to bow to her but in the instant he moved he saw what she was planning. Too late, of course, to do anything but let it happen.

In one smooth motion Helen’s glass of champagne tipped all over Becker’s front, with all the appearance of an accident to everyone but Becker.

“Oh, how clumsy of me,” she said and batted ineffectually with a handkerchief at his chest.

“It’s fine,” Becker muttered, catching at her hand.

Their eyes met and Helen was staring at him, just staring and staring, and somehow Becker knew that she knew, she _knew,_ and he couldn’t leave fast enough.

“Forgive me,” Becker said, already backing away. “I’ll get cleaned up.”

“Wait!” That was the prince, but it was Helen who grabbed at him.

Becker stumbled, knocking into someone. He apologised again but didn’t stop even to see whom he had knocked into. His mask was coming askew, falling into his eyes, and when Becker went to fix it he brushed into another person, jarring his arm.

The mask slipped off onto the floor and Becker ran.


	5. Chapter 5

There wasn’t any point trying to avoid retribution. Becker only went into the stable because he felt most comfortable there. He didn’t bother changing out of his fancy clothes and instead simply sat cross-legged on the ground, hands resting lightly on his knees, and waited for what was coming.

It came sooner than he’d expected. Helen must have grabbed Oliver and left the ball straight away.

Christine came in first, her son and daughter flanking her just slightly behind. Though Christine’s face seemed impassive, her eyes were burning with a cold fury. 

“I told you, Mother, he was lying about that flower--” Helen began but Christine raised her hand.

“Get up,” she said.

Becker got up. He’d rather face this standing anyway.

“Where were you tonight, Becker?”

“At the palace.”

“Was that the only time you’ve been to the palace recently?”

“No, my lady.”

“Why have you been going to the palace?”

“For the masquerades.”

Christine tapped her long fingernails against her crossed arms. “For the masquerades,” she repeated. “Why ever did you think you could attend the prince’s masquerades?”

Becker breathed out slowly. “The prince held them for me.”

Helen looked like she wanted to spring at him but Oliver was hanging onto her arm.

Christine’s voice was deathly calm. “For you.”

“Yes. Perhaps not the first one, though, in a way, you could say he did as he was searching for a partner, but certainly the rest. He wanted to see me again.”

“My, my,” Christine said, and her strange solemnity was far more worrying than any anger would have been. Becker could handle anger from Christine. This was something else entirely. “Your arrogance has rendered me nearly speechless. What am I to do with you?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something, my lady.”

Christine laughed, mirthless and chilling. “Oh, yes, I am sure of that. Servant boys like you are not fit to lick the prince’s boots, do you understand me?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Clearly you need a reminder. Oliver.”

Oliver stepped forward. “Yes, Mother?”

“Oliver, my dear son, fetch the whip. Becker needs to be reminded of his place.”

A gleeful smile formed on Oliver’s thin face. “Right away, Mother.”

As he ran off, Becker simply gazed into Christine’s eyes. She said, “We’ll see just how high and mighty you are, Becker.”

-

Morning dawned and Becker was still laying face-first in the straw. One of the cats had curled up next to him, a warm ball of fur pressing against him. When Becker shifted, hissing in pain, the cat meowed to express her irritation at the jostling and got up, stretching, before flouncing off. 

Becker’s back ached and he knew he should be seeing to his duties, he knew he would make it worse if Christine made note of his absence from his work, but he could not make himself move. He thought another punishment didn’t seem so bad, not when he would never see the prince again, not when the hope he’d stupidly dared to let himself have had been so callously torn from him. Probably he deserved all that came to him for being such a fool.

He’d allowed himself to dream of possessing what was beyond his reach and now he was paying the price. Dreams were far too costly for people like him.

Footsteps sounded on the ground and the horses whickered, but a gentle voice shushed them. “Oh, Becker,” Abby breathed, kneeling down beside him. She pressed a cool cloth to his back. “I came as soon as I could. I wish I could have helped you last night.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Becker said, turning his head so he could see the blurred outline of her through half-closed eyes. “You couldn’t have done anything.”

“Maybe I--”

“They would only have punished you, too. I won’t have anyone else suffer because of me.”

“I could have at least cleaned you up,” Abby said as she tended to him. The soap stung in his wounds but the overall sensation was cool and soothing.

Becker blinked away a prickling sensation at his eyes because he didn’t know why Abby was being so kind to him but he couldn’t remember ever being this grateful, knowing that someone cared. The stable filled with silence as they stayed there, Becker on his stomach and Abby at his side.

Until someone shouted, “Becker!”

Abby sprang to her feet. “Milady,” she said, and Becker leaned up on his elbow until he could see the bowed shape of Abby’s head.

“What are you doing lazing about in here?” Christine demanded, holding her skirt up so it wouldn’t touch the ground and gazing distastefully around herself. It was early still and Becker couldn’t fathom what had brought her out here. “You, get back in the house.”

Abby bobbed a tiny curtsey and, with one regretful glance at Becker, scurried outside.

Christine redirected her attention to Becker. “You’re lucky I don’t have time to deal with you. Get yourself into the house; I can’t have you causing trouble.”

Dragging himself to his knees and then to his feet, Becker questioned, “My lady?”

“The prince will be coming here,” Christine said, eyeing him sharply. “He will be visiting every manor in a quest to discover the young man who ran out on him last night. You, needless to say, will be spending the rest of the day locked upstairs where you can’t trouble anyone. Now get out.”

Becker went. He walked wordlessly from the stable to the house, up the stairs and into the room Oliver was standing outside. He didn’t look at Oliver and instead sat down on the bed while the door was closed and locked.

He sank back down on his stomach, his face pushed into the pillow, and felt like he might drown in his own misery.

-

The shadows were lengthening when he saw the glow behind his eyelids. Becker sat up stiffly and watched Jess walk through a gateway into the room.

She stopped and stared at him, covering her mouth as she gasped. “Oh, Becker, what have they done to you?”

“Given me my payment for disobedience and thoughts above my station.”

“Thoughts above your--” Jess was nearly shaking with rage, lips pressed thinly together. “The fact that they dare to… If only I could…” She swept forward and laid her hands on Becker’s skin.

It was like Abby’s cool cloth, only amplified a hundred times. Becker felt immediately better, like the whipping had been a week ago instead of only last night.

“I can’t take it away,” Jess said, tenderness in her face, “but I can ease it for you.”

“Thank you,” Becker said, squeezing her hand.

She squeezed back and then took a few steps away from him. “Now, shirt back on,” she said and Becker complied without thought, pulling the crumpled thing over his head. His wounds barely twinged at the movement.

“Better. So, that’s out of the way, now tell me, what are you doing in here? The prince has been scouring the countryside all day for you!”

“I dare say he will find it difficult to locate me.”

Jess clenched her hands into fists by her sides, an angry crease developing between her eyebrows. “What’s the matter with you? The prince searches for you and yet here you sit in a sulk. I know they hurt you but don’t let them take this away from you.”

“Don’t you understand?” Becker swept his hands through his hair, rising to his feet and pacing. “There is nothing for them to take, nothing that’s real. You have had your fun, Jess, and I’ll admit it was nice to pretend for a little while. But he is the prince and I am... I am what I am and he cannot be mine.” He felt a little bit like something had died inside of him just saying the words out loud. 

But it was for the best. He had played long enough and he had his real life to face.

“With that attitude, no, he can’t. But you are better than this, Becker, and you can have whatever you believe you can have.”

“My step-mother will die before she lets me out of this room to see him.”

Jess shook her head and smiled. “Have you learned nothing?” She snapped her fingers and the door creaked open.

Becker stared at it, feeling something small and anxious and full of dread curling inside of him. What was he doing? This was crazy, it was the prince, he couldn’t…

Jess gave him a tiny shove, making him rock forward on his feet. “I didn’t think you were a coward, Becker.”

Scowling at her, Becker said, “I am no coward.” He went through the doorway, hearing voices coming from the front hall.

Becker stopped at the top of the stairs and sank down, leaning against the wall and hugging his knees to his chest. It couldn’t hurt just to listen, to hear what was going on. He wouldn’t want to burst in without knowing the details of the situation, after all.

As Becker listened, the voices grew more distinct. That was Helen, slyly cajoling. “Surely if this man is forcing you to search for him, he is not worth being found. He must have a terribly high opinion of himself.”

A tinkling laugh rang out, false and put-on. Christine. “My Helen makes a fine point, Your Highness. Why don’t you let us prepare dinner for you? You must be exhausted after so much fruitless searching.”

Prince Jon sounded weary, his politeness holding an edge of forcedness. “That’s a very kind offer, Lady Christine, thank you. However, I’m afraid I must continue on with my search.”

“Such a shame, Your Highness,” came Oliver’s simpering voice. “I do hope you won’t be disappointed.”

“Yes,” Prince Jon said absently. “Thank you for your time, I must--”

There was a long pause and Becker couldn’t make anything out. When the prince spoke again, his voice was tight and hard. “Captain Ryan informs me that according to the registry, you do have another son, the child of your second husband. Hilary?”

Christine’s fake laugh was noticeably anxious. “Oh, you must mean Becker; he’s only a simple man, it isn’t possible that he could be the man you seek. He is a labourer, nothing more.”

“Nevertheless, I asked to see every man, did I not? Bring him to me.”

“I’m sure I--” Christine stopped and Becker could well imagine the expression Prince Jon must be giving her because her reply turned suddenly meek and accommodating. “Of course, Your Highness, whatever you like, we live to serve you. He’s upstairs.” There was a jingle of keys.

“You’ve kept him locked away?” Prince Jon’s tone could have cut glass.

“It’s for his own safety, you see, he’s...”

“I fail to imagine any possibility which would make it right for a mother to lock away her son, particularly not when you have been asked by your prince to bring all male children before me. Give me that key, I will find him myself.”

Becker decided he had heard enough and he wasn’t about to let the prince come searching for him and find him like a damsel in a tower. He strode down the stairs.

He was met by a ring of astonished faces and bowed low. “Your Highness. I believe you wished to see me? I beg your pardon for my lateness.”

When he raised his gaze it was to see Prince Jon’s face alight with pleasure. “My knight in shining armour.”

“My prince in distress,” Becker said, and inclined his head, fighting back his urge to break into a grin.

Prince Jon drew closer, holding out his hand. Upon it lay Becker’s mask.

Becker felt suddenly ill.

“I came here searching for the man who wore this mask. You must put it on for me so that I may study your face.”

“Your Highness, I assure you that I--”

“The mask, if you please.”

There was nothing for it. Helen and Oliver were glaring daggers at his head and Becker knew that playtime was over, it was time to face reality. He wondered what King James would do to him for this.

Becker put on the mask and cautiously regarded the prince. He braced himself for the shouting, for the denunciation, but it didn’t come.

Prince Jon’s lips were curving upwards. “I should have known it was you. I think perhaps I did. Or at least, I wanted it to be you.”

“Your Highness, I apologise for the deception, I--”

The prince stepped forward, grazing Becker’s jaw with his fingertips. “You owe me no apologies.”

Becker felt almost as though he would sway on his feet and he did not let his eyes flutter closed like he wanted. “Prince Jon, you have every right to be angry. I should not have lied to you, and I should not have pretended to be--”

Prince Jon moved his hand ever so slightly to cup Becker’s jaw and Becker fell silent. “We all have reasons for what we do.”

“Your Highness,” Christine burst in, breaking the moment. “Your Highness, I must beg for your forgiveness, I assure you that he left this house without my permission--”

“Be silent, foolish woman!” Prince Jon dropped his hand from Becker’s face and let Christine face the full force of his anger. “You have kept a man whom you should have loved as your son in filth and poverty, kept him as less than a servant when he is better than you or your miserable children could ever hope to be. Do not think that I will ignore it, or that I shall ever forget it.”

Christine was stunned into silence. Helen and Oliver looked similarly flabbergasted, though Helen was recovering quickly to verge into disgusted.

Becker removed his mask and touched the prince’s arm. “Would it be all right if we stepped outside?”

Prince Jon nodded, exhaling deeply. “Wonderful idea.”

They exited the house and no one but Captain Ryan followed. Becker took them in a slow circle, heading towards the back of the house to where the stables were, while the prince walked silently at his side. Becker tried desperately to think of something to say, he knew he should say something, but his mind was a blank.

Eventually the prince spoke. “I remember your father, he was a good friend to my own father. How is it that you live almost as a slave to that woman?”

“Christine... did not care for me. I have lived like this since my father’s death.”

The prince’s hand was curled into a fist at his side. “That she would dare... I will have her--”

“No, Your Highness, please,” Becker said, though he was not sure exactly why he intervened. Thoughts of retribution against Christine, Helen, and Oliver, the chance to see them get what they were owed, should have pleased him. That should have been exactly what he wanted. 

But it wasn’t. Becker realised that he wanted only for the whole thing to be behind him and he didn’t think that his parents would have wanted him to stoop to Christine’s level. He suspected, anyway, that the clear evidence of Prince Jon’s favour towards him would be vengeance enough. “I do not wish to cause any trouble and I... It has not been so terrible.”

“That is a lie, Hilary, I can see it on your face. But I will attempt not to be rash. I’m afraid it’s a character flaw.”

“You seem to have many of those,” Becker said in the hopes it would make the prince laugh and drive away the tight fury in his expression.

It did. “That’s true enough, but I know you are not nearly so meek and subservient as you are making yourself out to be.”

“No, sire,” Becker replied, with a private little smile. “I am not.”

“Please,” Prince Jon said, pausing and touching his fingers to Becker’s sleeve. “Will you call me Jon?”

“I am not sure that would be appropriate.” Becker dropped his eyes but then made himself look at the prince’s face.

“On the contrary, it is entirely appropriate. Hilary, do you... What I mean is, I... Oh, bugger.” Prince Jon winced but then said, “I suppose you will not be so offended at my language as the noble ladies would be.”

“No, sire.”

“Jon,” the prince insisted. “Do you recall what the purpose of my parents throwing that ball in the first place was?”

“In the hopes of finding someone suitable for you to marry.”

“Yes, and I was hoping to find someone I would actually want to spend my life with.”

Becker found he couldn’t say anything at all, his mouth felt dry and his tongue heavy.

“I was happy it was you.”

“Sire?”

“I was happy because it saved me from loving two men at once. Do you understand?”

“No, sire,” Becker whispered, staring at the ground, even though he was afraid he knew exactly what the prince was saying. It was only that he couldn’t quite believe it was true.

Prince Jon’s expression was soft but the way he shifted his weight ever so slightly revealed his nervousness. “I wonder if you might like to stay a while in the palace, Hilary. Perhaps then you will understand.”

“I... Your Highness-- Jon, I am nothing special.”

“I think we both know that isn’t true.”

Becker was suddenly fiercely aware that they weren’t alone, that Captain Ryan was in fact listening to every word, no matter how hard he tried to appear as if he wasn’t. A flush rose at the back of Becker’s neck and he wished the ground would swallow him, but this wasn’t something he could hide from. “What is it that you want of me, exactly?”

“For the moment, I simply want the opportunity to spend more time with you. And then, if you wish it, perhaps we could make your stay a more... permanent one.” Prince Jon practically vibrated with earnestness.

Becker swallowed. “I won’t be your kept man, locked safe in the palace like a prize.” He would not escape one cage only to earn another, no matter how gilded it was.

“If that was what I wanted, I assure you we would not be having this conversation. You are your own man and that is still what you shall be if you were to become my husband.”

“Your husband, my God,” Becker murmured. “And if... If I were, what would that make me? Someone to look pretty on your arm, to smile and laugh and make nice with visiting dignitaries and people at court?”

“Clearly you have not spent much time with my mother,” Prince Jon said wryly.

“If I might make a suggestion, sire?” Captain Ryan broke in.

The prince waved him on.

“Lord Hilary once spoke to me of a desire to belong to the king’s guards. Perhaps the opportunity to prove himself worthy of our ranks would be a satisfactory arrangement for both of you.”

Prince Jon searched Becker’s face. “Is that true? You want to be a king’s guard?”

Becker nodded. “Aye, I do.” 

“Well, I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t be.”

“Because you care for me? I don’t want to be nothing but a bit of charity to you.”

“You misunderstand me. I will not make you a guard, even if I could, which I cannot. That is up to my father and Captain Ryan. I meant only that being my partner will not keep you from doing whatever it is that would make you happy.”

“Even when it is something that surely the prince’s consort should not be doing?”

“Even then.” Prince Jon smiled. “To a reasonable extent, of course. I can’t have you dallying with any pretty young lords or the like, you understand. Bad for my image.”

“Of course,” Becker said and wished he could go with the joke but he couldn’t. Not when this was so important to him. “So then I... You will let me try?”

“Hilary, you saved my life once already. It would be remiss of me to not let you try. Besides, you’ve clearly made an impression on Captain Ryan.”

Captain Ryan’s lips twitched. “I am sorry that I can’t say the same for the king.”

The prince laughed. “No, he hates you, I think. Still, though, plenty of time to win him over. The saving my life thing will help, now that I know my mystery lord and my stable boy are one and the same.”

It seemed like everything Becker had ever wanted was happening all at once, everything he’d ever had the audacity to dream of. But he still couldn’t let it go. He had spent his entire life fighting against being a victim and he refused to be the damsel in his own story. “If I were to decline your offer, would you still let me try for the guards?”

“Even then,” Prince Jon said, as though he understood. Perhaps he did. “But I hope that you will not decline. You may make whatever choice you wish, of course, but... I hope you know how terribly unhappy that would make me.”

There was really only one thing Becker could say. “I think... I think that would make me terribly unhappy as well. I do not wish to decline, Jon.”

Prince Jon brought his hand up to Becker’s cheek once more, stroking his skin gently. “Then you should make me a very happy man indeed.”

Becker brought his own hand over the prince’s. “It seems you may get to ruin me, after all,” he said, finally smiling. He wondered what his mother would think, to see him wooed by a prince. He had not changed his mind about princesses, but princes were another matter entirely.

From over Prince Jon’s shoulder he could see a flash of brown hair and a pink dress, the edge of a laughing smile. Becker could imagine what Jess would say to him, and it would begin with, _Oh, hurry up, get your man already! Must I do all the work for you?_

He laughed aloud but it was all right because the prince was grinning at him and when Becker slipped his hand around to the back of the prince’s neck and leaned forward, Prince Jon met him halfway.

All the best stories ended with a kiss.

**_ End _ **


End file.
